Destiny and the Detective
by Quarto
Summary: Sometimes a love story is so simple and so clear you don't know how you possibly could have missed it. It's obvious. Molly Hooper and John Watson belong together.
1. Chapter 1

_Notes:_ From a prompt that kalkopyryt submitted to the holidaysat221b community: I have read this in one or two fics, but not really developed as a main theme of the story … so: What if Rosie wants to pair John and Molly? How will Sherlock react and … how will he convince Rosie that Molly is for him and not for John. I'm imagining some angst in the middle because the silly man thinks this is a wonderful idea: Rosie gets a mummy and Molly gets a family. In fact, Sherlock sets up a date between Molly and John while he's babysitting Rosie

* * *

 _Wednesdays at 221B_

Rosie frowned intently at the small square of card before her, tongue stuck out as she concentrated.

"I have blue eyes so I'm little b- little b. Daddy also has blue eyes so _he's_ little b- little b. But Mummy had _brown_ eyes. So since the bwue awwewe is recessive-"

"What do we say about gliding our 'l's,' Watson?"

She heaved a melodramatic sigh and rolled her (indeed very blue) eyes at him. Her teenaged years were going to be an absolute _treat._

"Only when I'm trying to con a sucker by being cute."

"And am I a sucker?"

Rosie considered.

"Not always."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but had to say, "Granted."

"The _blue_ _allele_ is _recessive_ … so Mummy must have been a big-B-little-b!"

She smiled a wide white smile up at her (admittedly doting) godfather, who filled out the Punnet square accordingly. Watson was quite precocious ( _though how could she not be_ , Sherlock thought, _with two very intelligent parents and two_ _extraordinarily_ _intelligent godparents_ ) but the manual dexterity necessary for writing was taking a bit longer to come along.

"Very good work, Watson. That's correct. Your mother must have carried a copy of the blue-eyed gene in order for it to appear in _you_ , but because she _also_ carried the dominant brown-eyed gene, it did not manifest in _her_."

"Did you _check_?" Rosie asked suspiciously.

"Oh, _excellent_ work, Watson!" Sherlock clapped his hands, "Reflexive questioning of the argument from authority, there shall be buns for tea! No, I haven't. Genetic testing is still quite expensive. And in actual fact inheritance is rather more complicated than Mendel thought or than the Punnett square can capture."

Rosie switched instantly from the delighted "Mary" expression to the thunderous "John" one, glared up at him, and wailed, "Then _why_ did I have to _do_ this?"

Or maybe not John. That face contained elements of the full _Mycroft_. But he _had_ consumed the entirety of Rosie's fifteen minute attention span on a challenging and highly skilled lesson, and therefore she deserved an explanation followed by a dessert - aka the _Big Brother Protocol_.

"It was what we call a lie-to-children," Sherlock explained, "And what do we say about lying?"

"Only when it's really important," Rosie mumbled.

"Exactly. The explanation I gave you isn't _fully_ true, but once you've built up enough knowledge of chemistry and biology you can build upon this lie to learn things that are _actually_ true. Now let's have cake."

A slice of black forest cake and a half glass of milk (he'd learned the hard way not to pour her any more liquids than he was willing to clean up) handily defused the small Watson-shaped bomb that had been about to go off. Rosie ate the same way her father did: precisely, surgically, and with great attention to the order on her plate (though not to the order on her face… he'd have to make sure she was well washed before he returned her this evening).

The question of inheritance had been much on his mind, lately… had John purposefully taught her to eat this way? Or had Rosie absorbed it without his knowledge, simply through the osmotic pressure of sharing a house and a life with her father? Or was it something more fundamental, passed down in the genes, a snippet of DNA that she would have brought with her even if John had remained forever in the well at Musgrave?

 _Melancholy, Sherlock? How very like you of late._

 _Shut up, Mycroft._

"So my hair is blonde because of Mummy and Daddy's blonde hair," Rosie commented, snapping Sherlock out of his own solitary train of thought and into hers.

"Mmm… hair's one of those tricky things. Your father had dark hair when he was a young man, he's just gotten grey. And your mother colored her hair. Furthermore, even though your hair is blonde now it may well be that you too will get darker as you get older, that's quite common."

 _Just like me, Sherlock. Do you remember?_

He did, abruptly. Eurus had been even fairer than Rosie, in his earliest memories. The near-white of her hair had just been starting to shade into darker hues when she was taken away.

"You can color your hair?"

"Yes."

"Can _I_?"

"Unfortunately I haven't got any on hand at the moment but I can pick some up for next week. What color would you like?"

"Purple!"

"Right-o."

Rosie dabbed the back of her fork into the cherry filling and asked, more hesitantly, "So if you don't always get your hair and your eyes from your mum and dad… then could Molly be my mummy?"

"Um…" Utterly flummoxed, Sherlock stared across the table at Rosie.

" _Apart from the fact that your mother seems to have typed Ctrl-C Ctrl-V on herself to make you?"_

 _No._

" _I was present at your birth. It was horrifying. Molly was definitely not there, I'd have remembered."_

 _And no._

"Well, the coloration doesn't specifically rule it out… but… _Mary_ was your mummy, not Molly," he hesitated, "You know, from your video? And your pictures?"

"Oh," Rosie said in a small voice.

Tragedy lurks, sometimes, in the most unexpected places. He should have stuck with fruit flies or pea plants.

Rosie brightened up, then, and said, "But if she married Daddy, then she would be!"

"What," Sherlock replied.

Rosie took on a didactic tone, gesturing with her fork, "Sometimes when you get a stepmother she is very cruel and bakes you into a pie or leads you out into the woods to get eaten by wild beasts. But Molly is not cruel. And so she wouldn't."

"I'm sure your father wouldn't marry anyone who would bake you into a pie, Watson."

 _Not intentionally, anyway. Though once John does finally hop back into the dating saddle I'll have to keep a weather eye on him, just in case. The man's picker is profoundly broken._

Rosie seemed entirely untroubled at the prospect of being devoured by beasts and/or cannibalized, another example of how she was a profoundly odd small child.

"Well, Sherlock… you _really never know_ ," Rosie mused, "And it'd be nice for Aunt Molly, too. Daddy could… lift heavy things for her. He's very strong. And he could buy her diamonds."

Rosie was hesitant about this last, as not being able to recall seeing the inside of a marriage had made her base her conceptions entirely off television.

"I don't think that's all there is to being married," Sherlock reassured her.

"And really who _else_ is going to marry Molly?"

The child blinked up at him with her wide blue eyes, and Sherlock found himself saying, "Is it time for a nap yes I do think so."

Rosie went down without a fuss. The new full-day education was taking it out of her… John reported that she had shifted her bedtime more than half an hour earlier on nights she _didn't_ nap, though of course the latest research suggested that children her age ought _not_ to be encouraged to have routine daytime rest-

And Sherlock wasn't _actually_ thinking about his weekly guardianship.

He was thinking about what Rosie had said.

After the debacle that was the Smith case, Sherlock had gradually come to accept that Mary's death had not been his fault. But there was a difference between fault and _responsibility_ , and the _responsibility_ lay entirely on his shoulders. Decisions Sherlock had made had led to the objective fact of a motherless child sleeping peacefully in her father's old room.

And _Molly_ … oh, _there_ lay _fault_.

He hadn't thought of her at all at first, except as a useful accomplice in Barts morgue and laboratories. But then even Sherlock had caught on to her social cues… the blushes, the way she touched her neck when she saw him-

 _Oh,_ he'd thought at the time, _**that's**_ _what she meant by coffee._

Then he'd used it, as he often used other people's weaknesses against them.

But Molly had proven herself more than useful, but _crafty_. Gradually she'd insinuated her tendrils through his brain and life and heart until she was far more _his_ weakness than the other way round… until Sherrinford, when he'd finally admitted something that had been a matter of objective fact in his mind for years.

And like _many_ other settled facts, would have better been left permanently locked up in there.

There was no possible way in which "The Story of Molly and Sherlock" reached any sort of romantically happy terminus. He was a Holmes, and always would be. The coldness of his brother and the madness of his sister were eternally present parts of his psyche.

Sherlock knew himself fully possessed of the capability to destroy the peace and happiness of a gracious, beautiful, infinitely kind woman. What else could he do but let her go?

Except she hadn't. Gone, that is. She'd accepted his love and returned it and simply adapted to the objective fact of life-as-it-is. Molly was still eternally present in his life, mostly smiling, partially happy… and solitary. In a way that she really ought not to be.

Was he capable of leaving his own selfish desires behind and changing that?

Rosie woke an hour or so later and came down the seventeen steps, her binky trailing behind her. In the living room she find Sherlock folded up in his chair, his hands tented below his chin.

"Rosie, I believe that we can make a match between your father and your Aunt Molly."

"What, seriously?" Rosie asked. She was sleepy, and so the question sounded rather sarcastic rather than the delighted wonder that he'd been expecting.

"Yes, I think so. We'd simply have to arrange for favorable circumstances."

Rosie looked up at him dubiously.

"Like… a date? With flowers and music?"

"Exactly like that."

* * *

 _Scenes from a date: Half of a conversation held on a public landmark_

Sherlock, it's me. Yeah, look, we're on the Eye like you said but I'm not seeing the suspect _at all_ and I'm starting to get worried we've accidentally stolen the capsule that some poor bugger was planning to propose marriage on.

No, I mean, there's an actual string quartet. Playing… I dunno. That song from "Scent of a Woman?"

Oh, Molly says it's called _Por Una Cabesa_. Apparently it's her favor-

No, _fuck off_ with that _,_ I said I don't want any champagne.

 _Anyway._ There's a bloody persistent waiter in a tuxedo and roses and I don't know what all. Are… are you _sniffling_?

Oh, we're seeing a lot of that down at the clinic. Global warming spiking the pollen content. There should be some claritin in your medicine cabinet.

No, next to the arsenic.

Bloody _hell_. The thing's coming to a _stop!_ I've got no idea how long we're going to be up here. Are you okay watching Rosie for a bit longer?

Yeah, I can hear her laughing. Right, thanks for that, see you later.

* * *

 _Wednesdays at 221B_

"So, sadly, Watson, it didn't work," Sherlock concluded, "Nearly two hours in extraordinarily romantic circumstances and they simply said their goodbyes and moved on."

Very sad indeed, as he _wasn't_ a selfish monster and only wanted the best for the people he cared about. Tragic. Really.

Rosie considered, deeply. Then she asked, "Does everybody like to do the same sorts of things when they go on a date?"

Sherlock considered, deeply.

"There you have me. I've no idea."

Rosie sucked on her front teeth in another Mini-Mary expression, and said, "Well, then, what would you do? If _you_ wanted to take Aunt Mowwy on a date? What do _you_ think would make her happy?"

He was probably imagining the faint hint of "You moron" at the end of her final sentence.

* * *

 _Scenes from a date: Slightly more than half of a conversation held at a controversial anatomical art installation_

"Oh, wow, that's amazing. Look at the details of the musculature that they were able to preserve."

"Yeah."

.

.

.

"I mean obviously it's not perfect. The positioning of the organs isn't quite how it should be for someone _actually_ standing on her hands. Typical physician's mistake… we really only see them lying down on their backs, after all. And the coloration is all wrong. Just look at that liver. They're never that pale."

"Yep, look at that."

"It must be an artifact of the plastination process. I never studied embalming, myself, people always confuse me with a mortician but it's really not part of the curriculum, though one of my professors was quite keen. It's important as a teaching tool if nothing else."

"Huh."

.

.

.

"Ooh, there's a little shop at the end."

.

.

.

"Of course there's some ethical concerns with this. They have tons of volunteers for the process but the actual work is done out of Dalian. China's kind of the Wild West in terms of organ and tissue donation. There's been allegations that executed dissidents have been used for some of the exhibits."

"Christ, really?"

.

.

.

"My God, that's…exquisite. How did they _do_ that? Even the capillaries are perfectly preserved. They're almost like feathers, aren't they, when they're out on their own?"

"Molly, I'm just going to step out for a sec."

Molly had been too engaged in the exhibit to notice that John had been unusually monosyllabic. She turned away from the plastinated freestanding circulatory system to see his retreating back as he pushed through the crowds.

"John?"

"Text me when you're done!" John called over his shoulder.

Molly glanced over at the display John had been viewing… the cadaver of a woman, reclining on her side. This one had been dissected to open the uterus and show the curled eight month fetus that she had been pregnant with when she died.

It _was_ remarkable, this intersection between science and art. But looking at it _without_ her pathologist's eyes… it was also a tragedy.

She skipped the rest of the show and followed John out of the gallery.

He was sitting on a bench, looking out over the tourist boats cruising down the Thames. Molly sat next to him and folded her hands in her lap. John's lips were tightly folded, his own hands in fists.

They sat in silence for a few minutes until John said, "I never had problems in the cad lab in medical school."

"Mmm," Molly said, "Because every year I get a new crop of students in and every year I can guarantee at least two fainters. _Always_ men."

She smiled.

"I'm very nice about it, but secretly I think they're pussies. At least _you_ didn't hit the floor. Though I'm going to ask Mike Stamford about your med school days."

Molly reached over and took John's hand in hers, twined their fingers together, and after a brief hesitation he let her.

"Seriously, though, sometimes… it's hard to mentally... _detach_ the body from the person who was in it. Loads of people can't do it at all, and almost everybody finds it hard at least some of the time. Even me."

Like the tall man, whose name nobody had ever been able to determine, who looked more like Sherlock than his actual brother did. The woman without her face. A few others, here and there, over the years.

John interrupted her musings, saying, "And I see murder victims all the time, obviously. But when we do that I'm mostly focused on the crime, not the person."

He chuckled ruefully.

"I should have just given the other ticket to Sherlock and let _him_ go with you. I bet he'd have got a real kick out of it."

"He really would, to the point where I'm sure he's already been. But why'd you buy the tickets, then, if you didn't want to go see it?"

"I didn't buy them," John replied, "I won them off the radio by knowing which was the only blond Traveling Wilbury."

He sounded quite proud of this accomplishment, and Molly smiled, asking, "Okay, I give, which?"

"Tom Petty."

"Nice."

A breeze blew along the river, lifting their hair. John put his other hand on hers and gave it a squeeze before letting go.

"Fancy some lunch?" he asked, "No corpses, I'm afraid."

"I think I can manage without for a bit," Molly smiled.

Neither of them noticed the black-clad figure on the other side of the river, observing them through binoculars.


	2. Chapter 2

_Wednesdays at 221B_

"They… held hands?" Rosie asked, her brow furrowing in a manner that, had Sherlock been _really_ paying attention, he might have recognized as another of her mother's expressions.

The, "I really didn't think this through and now I've got to shoot Sherlock," sort of expression.

"And _smiled_ at one another," Sherlock spat, "Then had _lunch_."

"Then-" Rosie considered, "Maybe we should just leave them alone and see what happens-"

"Nope," Sherlock replied. He felt oddly manic, frankly. "We've begun it, we have to see it through. After all we're making everyone _happy_ , just little love pixies scattering stardust and joy like droppings from a rabbit."

Rosie looked at him quizzically, but Sherlock kept on.

"This is _exactly_ what I hoped to accomplish when I went into detective work, you know, Watson, serving as cupid for John "Three-Continents" Watson and _my_ pathologist. But the overall total of _happiness_ will increase and everyone will be bloody delighted."

Swinging on his coat he stalked out of his flat. Rosie waited patiently until she heard his footsteps coming up the stairs a few minutes later.

"It's Wednesday, which is when I look after you."

"Yeah," Rosie agreed.

* * *

 _A typical working day at St. Bartholomew's hospital_

Sherlock stalked into the path lab, looking cranky. Though of course (Molly smiled to herself) she'd never _tell_ him that. She'd say he was looking _troubled_ , if she were inclined to comment on the subject to him.

"I've solved my case," he announced.

"Oh, really?" Molly began, "What was-"

"Goose theft. Nearly forty of them, raised for their fatty livers and destined for the slaughter, stolen from a hijacked truck near Kilkenny before they could be brought to the butcher who supplies the restaurant which engaged me on the case."

"What an _excellent_ use of your time," Molly replied archly.

Sherlock frowned sternly down at her, and rummaged in one of the pockets of his jacket before taking out a tiny bundle wrapped in his handkerchief, setting it down on the lab bench triumphantly.

Molly poked the handkerchief carefully open with the end of her pen, because you really never knew with Sherlock. Inside was a big rectangular gemstone, about the size of one of the joints of her thumb, glittering a deep cobalt blue under the fluorescent lights.

"Is that-?"

"The Countess of Portarlington's stolen Burmese sapphire, yes. Nearly seventy five carats, absolutely flawless. Found it in the crop of one of the geese."

"Aww," Molly said, picking up the (really very large) stone and examining it, "Poor goose. That has to have hurt."

"It's not as though it led a particularly wonderful life _before_ that, Molly," Sherlock scowled, "And I found that the restaurant owner's accountant was fiddling his taxes. _And also_ that his _maitre d'hotel_ is in love with him."

Molly chuckled. She wasn't quite sure when Sherlock had got into the habit of bringing these trophies of his cases back for her to admire but it was _adorable_. It was always rather tempting to scratch him behind his ears and exclaim, "Who's a good boy? _You're_ a good boy!" when he did it.

"One for the blog, then?"

For some reason that made Sherlock frown even more, his face creasing.

"Indeed. However, my purpose in coming here was to inform you that the restaurant's owner, in gratitude for my services, has invited me to a complimentary dinner and I'm trying to assemble all of my friends."

"Oh, that sounds lovely-"

"Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, you… and John."

"Brilliant! When?"

"John's a good man, isn't he?"

"Uh… yes. Yes he is," Molly agreed, confused.

"Intelligent, physically fit, pleasant to look at, reliably earns a respectable though unremarkable living," Sherlock kept on, folding his arms across his chest and generally acting like he was giving a eulogy, "Sires excellent children and after an admittedly extremely rocky start has served as a skilled and competent parent."

"Yes, Sherlock," Molly said slowly, "All of those things are true."

"Occasionally witty. Loyal to a fault. Probably quite sexually satisfactory, too," Sherlock mused, "Certainly Mary and all the rest of them seemed happy, at least in that regard."

And oh-kay, they were off in that weird Sherlock la-la land that they sometimes went to, where everything made perfect sense to exactly _one_ of the participants in the conversation.

Patiently, Molly asked, "Sherlock, are you trying to tell me that you've fallen in love with John? Because if so I need to phone Scotland Yard. I think they've still got that pool going."

"No! No!" he barked, "You're not _understanding_ me, Molly."

Sherlock ran his hands through his hair, and began again.

"My point, Molly, is that it's entirely rational that someone, _a woman_ , might be quite happy with John as a romantic and/or life partner. If she has historically enjoyed short men with mercurial tempers, for example. And in comparison to other men in that category he spends very little time plotting to destroy me, so, really, bonus!"

He'd got sort of high pitched and wild eyed and was glaring at her like she'd kicked his puppy. Molly tried-

"Are you... saying we should set John up on a blind date? Because I really don't think that's a good idea."

As they'd all ambled past forty Molly had found the truth in the phrase "the odds are good but the goods are odd" and everyone she knew who was single was single for a VERY good reason…

Though, ooh, actually, maybe he'd like Lucy from Oncology. Dead sexy, albeit in that barking mad sort of way. Given Mary, she might be just John's type.

Anyway, the withering look Sherlock gave at her tentative question suggested that Mad Lucy wasn't where he'd been going.

"You're _hopeless_ at this," he pronounced, before turning on his heel and swanning out of the lab. He threw an "I'll text you the details," over his shoulder as he left.

He'd forgotten his sapphire on the bench, so Molly picked it up and tucked it into the useless little coin pocket of her jeans. Sherlock would be wanting to return it eventually.

Probably.

You really never knew, with Sherlock.

* * *

 _A tailor's shop which may or may not have a secret weapons cache and access to a network of undergound spy tunnels in the back room_

The shop was in Savile Row, of course. The tailor appeared to have been dug up shortly after the battle of Waterloo and had that incredibly supercilious upper-class air that only the employees of posh London shops can manage.

Sherlock had been given three fingers of an excellent Scotch and put into a chair, where was now slumping and scowling. John _hadn't_ received any Scotch, but had somehow been talked out of his trousers and underwear and into a set of skin-tight silk (!) boxer briefs. He stood leerily at parade rest on the tailor's pedestal in shirt and pants and ventured, "You know, I _do_ own some suits already, Sherlock."

"You own three vaguely suit-shaped objects: the ancient grey one that you got for your MRCGP oral exams and which you're now too fat for, the brown one you wear to court, and the black one you mistakenly think is elegant. This place sells _suits_. Real ones. Owned by _men_ ," Sherlock growled, taking a deep drink of his scotch.

John sucked his gut in. He wasn't _fat_ , he just wasn't twenty-five anymore.

"Does sir dress to the left or to the right?" the tailor wheezed from his position at John's feet.

"I guess I mostly go for a more conservative sort of-" John began, only to be interrupted by a wrinkly but surprisingly warm hand under the hem of his shirt in a place where very few hands had been recently.

"To the right," the tailor said, smugly, "Slightly unusual."

"Does that… matter?" John asked hesitantly.

"In well cut trousers and for _you_ , sir? Yes. And may I extend my congratulations?"

John stared down at the tailor, who twinkled up at him with a terribly amorous leer for someone who was so long dead.

"Oh, for God's sake," Sherlock (thankfully) interrupted, "Let's talk about ethics in romantic relationships."

"What?"

* * *

 _Thursdays in Islington_

Rosie looked up from her homework (and whatever sort of sociopath came up with the idea that it was appropriate to assign homework to children this age ought to be publicly flogged, in Molly's opinion) and asked, "Aunt Molly?"

"Mmm?"

"Don't you ever want to get married? Or have a boyfriend?"

Oh, Christ. Even the five-year-olds were starting to "Poor Molly" her now. Probably next Rosie would gently ask if she'd thought to freeze any of her eggs back before she'd become a dried-up tragic spinster.

"I mean, yes, I would. But it's _okay_ that I don't have one," Molly said.

"But you would not just… marry _anybody_ , would you. You want to marry the right person," Rosie said flatly, without a hint of question.

"No, I definitely wouldn't marry just anybody."

"Because you're a strong independent woman who don't need no man," Rosie said, while trying to do two snaps in a circle, although since she hadn't quite mastered snapping it was more hilarious than sassy.

Molly rubbed her forehead. Everyone was being _so_ bleeding weird this week, and now Rosie was obviously watching the wrong sort of television.

"Nobody really _needs_ a man, sweetie," Molly said, "They're like… dessert. Lovely to have, but not required."

That was an _excellent_ Cher paraphrasing, Molly thought. She'd sounded wise and alloparental instead of the idiot making it up as she went along that she normally felt like. Then she had another thought.

"Rosie, even if I do get a boyfriend, or a husband… I'll still be here with you. Always. You know that, right? You don't need to worry."

Rosie sighed, her full lower lip quivering slightly.

"That is not _at all_ what I'm worried about," she said. She didn't want to explain any further, and Molly eventually had to let it go.

* * *

 _Saturday evening in a Camden Town flat_

Violet the part-time nanny answered the door and smiled widely when she saw him.

"Oh, hi, Mr. Holmes! Doctor Watson's not in tonight, though."

"I know," Sherlock said dully, "He's on a date. I'd thought I might visit Rosie, if she's not already gone to bed?"

Violet snorted.

"That one, in bed this early? No. She's just had her bath. If you wanted to do her story I bet she'd like that."

Rosie was in her pyjamas carefully arranging her hair, but she set the comb down and looked up at him solemnly with her big blue eyes.

"They're off," Sherlock told her.

"Daddy wore _perfume_ ," Rosie said, sounding scandalized.

"It's called cologne, when it's a man wearing it," he gently corrected her.

"Why?"

"No idea, it's one of those stupid things grownups do."

Rosie toddled over to her bookshelf and picked out the _Encyclopedia Brown_ book that she saved for Sherlock's visits. He sat in the rocking chair, and Rosie scaled his legs like Kilimanjaro and sat in his lap with a testicle-rattling thud.

She didn't open her book, but nestled in to his chest quietly instead. Sherlock rested his chin on her soft baby-shampoo scented hair.

"It'll be good, for your Dad, and Molly… and for you, of course," Sherlock murmured. It probably would be. John would be happy, Molly would be happy… and Rosie would have a mother.

John and Molly would eat dinner together. They'd have mutually satisfactory and frequent sex, making happy use of John's apparently _extraordinarily_ impressive knob. As a family they would take Watson on enriching and age-appropriate adventures, possibly with another baby or two to join in the fun. John would rest his head in Molly's lap and she'd card her fingers through his hair when he'd been thinking too hard and his coronal suture felt like it was about to rupture-

"Maybe you can get married to somebody too, Sherlock?" Rosie asked, almost as if she was reading his thoughts.

"I don't believe I'll get married to anyone, Watson."

Rosie craned her head around, looking up at him with deep blue eyes full of wise innocence.

"Won't you be _wonewy?_ "

"Why should I be lonely?" Sherlock said, smiling at her even though he _really_ didn't feel like it, "I'll still have exactly the same quantity of friends, it's only their configurations that may change."

Rosie sighed.

"I guess."

They read her story, arrant nonsense in which the solution to the case hung on knowledge of an obscure point of baseball umpire etiquette and was therefore obviously unsolvable by _true_ deduction. He tucked Rosie in to her tiny bed, and dimmed the lamp before walking down the stairs.

He nodded to Violet as he was putting on his coat, only to have her exclaim, "Oh, wait, I wanted to show you something!"

She rummaged through her messenger bag and shyly handed him an exam paper, with a red "84" on the top. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Did that suffice?"

"It did. First-class with honours, thanks to you. _And_ I'm inviting you to the graduation ceremony," she teased him.

"Speaking from experience, I'd sooner be shot. There's no need to thank me. It was absurd for an intelligent young woman not to finish her degree on time because of a minor difficulty with inorganic chemistry. The stupidest of the chemistries."

Violet smiled shyly and tugged at her thick chestnut braid, "I mean… most people wouldn't have taken the time to tutor their friend's _babysitter_. I knew you were brave and heroic, obviously. Even before I met you, I read the blog… and of course then you saved me _and_ Alice. But I didn't know you were _kind,_ too. Doctor Watson doesn't put all those bits in."

Oddly touched, Sherlock left.

The night was pleasant, and walking the streets of London helped ease the ache in his chest. It hadn't been difficult to help Violet, in either situation where he'd done so. Jephro Rucastle was no Jim Moriarty, and all she'd needed to succeed in her class was clarification on orbital theory, which Sherlock had always been a master of.

But he had done it, because he was kind. Or at least a plausible enough imitator of kindness to fool a clever young woman.

No, it was the first one. He'd assisted Violet because he liked her and had felt badly for her.

And when had that happened, Sherlock wondered? When had it become so… easy to be _kind_ and be _himself_ at the same moment? He worked part-time in childcare, he encouraged his friends to be happy, he took cases just because the people involved needed his help-

And if he could do that, what else might he be capable of doing?

Sherlock shook his head and took in his surroundings. He was in front of the Almeida theatre. Without realizing it, his aimless rambling had taken him to Islington… a short walk from Molly's flat.

He picked up the pace. If he could talk to Molly, sit on her comfortable grey sofa and tell her his thoughts… he could find clarity. And then-

And then Molly was there. With John, standing in front of the red doorway to her flat. And John was leaning in for a kiss.

And then… just a bit... Sherlock panicked.

Notes: The goose bit is stolen from ACDs "The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle," which was yrs. truly's very first Sherlock Holmes story, aged 9. Still a goodie, even though some time spent on the internet suggests carbuncles aren't particularly valuable stones. Rosie's nanny Violet Hunter is visiting from "The Adventure of the Copper Beeches."


	3. Chapter 3

_Scenes from a date: a full and complete conversation held at one of London's most exclusive restaurants_

John rang off with Mrs. Hudson as he walked into the restaurant, only to see Molly seated alone at a table for five, switching her own mobile off with a concerned look on her face. She raised an eyebrow at him, and said, "Yow. John, really… you look _handsome_."

Molly stood up and he kissed her cheek hello. Then John tugged awkwardly at the waistcoat of the three-piece houndstooth check Sherlock and the tailor had ultimately crammed him into.

"Thanks. Sherlock got it for me for a case next week, said I should wear it out to get comfortable in it and 'stop looking like a corpse who's never been properly dressed.' I'm just glad he paid, I'd like to be able to send Rosie to university someday. You look great too."

She really did, wearing a soft blue number that showed off her slim curves and good legs, with her hair done… up, but with bits of it falling down 'round the nape of her neck. There was probably a name for that sort of bun but John was damned if he knew what it was. Plaits were about as far as he'd got in the women's hairstyle category yet.

Molly flushed prettily and said, "Thanks. That was Greg, though… he got called out to a triple homicide in Mayfair. He can't make it."

"Bugger," John said, "I was just on the phone with Mrs. Hudson. An old chum of hers from Florida came into town unexpectedly for the evening. She's out too. And Sherlock _just_ texted me that he's got a case."

Molly frowned.

"Shall we call it off, then?"

"For ze guests of Monsieur 'Olmes, I would be 'appy to switch you to a more _intime_ table _por_ _deux_. Zere ees no need to _cancel!_ It would be _tragique_ not to savor ze artistry ov ze chef _!_ "

John glared suspiciously at the waiter who had silently oiled up behind him, but the man was quite a bit shorter than Sherlock. Plus black. So he was probably _actually_ a waiter, though there was no bloody way that accent was authentic. He looked over to Molly.

"The nanny's going to have to get paid extra anyway. Free posh dinner for two, Molls?"

Molly laughed.

"You know what, it's been a hell of a week, I'd be delighted, sir."

The waiter squired them over to a smaller candlelit table, pulled out Molly's chair for her, and then came back bearing a dusty-looking bottle.

"Weez ze compliments of ze 'ouse," he said, "Ze _Petrus Pomerol._ Ze 1988."

Experiencing true and sincere regret, John put his hand out over his glass when the waiter made to pour him a sample. Then again when Molly drank said sample, exclaimed, "Oh my God that's amazing," and the waiter began to pour him a full one.

"Just water, please."

When the waiter had oozed off, Molly cocked her head and asked, in a quiet voice, "John are you… not drinking? Not just now, but in general. I noticed you didn't have any champagne when we were on the Eye..."

John rubbed his chin, shrugged.

"My shrink says, given my history and my family's history, that I should 'reevaluate my relationship with alcohol,'" he answered, making air quotes, "So I did and that relationship is 'bad.' But never mind me, drink up. If that bottle is what I think it is it'd be a crime to let it go to waste."

"Never fear. Do you think they'd do a doggy bag if I can't finish it?"

John laughed, and raised his waterglass in a toast to her. They clinked. And something about the lovely woman in the candlelight across the table from him switched on the defunct-but-not-quite-dead "smoothie her up a bit" part of his lizard brain.

"You know, Doctor Hooper," John said, "A few more evenings like this and people _will_ start thinking we're dating."

Molly batted her eyelashes at him.

"We're raising a child together and not having sex, Doctor Watson," she purred, "People will think we're married."

He nearly did a spit take with his water, laughing.

"I will say, though," Molly kept on, "That I was always a bit offended that you never tried it on with me. It's been years, and you never hit on me _once_."

 _Oh shit,_ John thought.

"Molly, you're… _amazing_. Beautiful, and, and brilliant, and-"

Molly chuckled.

"Calm down, John, I don't actually _want_ you to hit on me. But there've been times when it was practically a reflex for you and you _never_ went for it. Doesn't make a girl feel her most appealing to be neglected."

"Oh, well-"

The waiter came back with "un _amuse-bouche,_ " which consisted of a poached quail egg on some sort of puree on a cartoonishly oversized silver spoon. When he'd gone again and they'd taken their single (excellent) bites, John resumed.

"I don't try it with you now because… well, because you're my _friend_. A proper mate, and I don't want to wreck it. I never actually had a friend who was a woman before."

"You weren't friends with Mary?" Molly frowned.

"Not really," John shrugged, "I mean, obviously I _liked_ her, I liked talking with her, but that was never totally separate in my brain from the sex and the love and the... _angst_ bits. And before you and I were friends…"

He hesitated.

"Well, I also always sort of thought it would be a violation of the bro code."

"Ahh," Molly exhaled, a soft sigh.

"And it's absolutely none of my business," John hastened to add.

"No, no, it's fine. I mean you were with him at Sherrinford, you saw that whole phone call…"

She sighed again, ran a finger around the rim of her wineglass.

"We _did_ talk, afterwards. And the long and the short of it is that Sherlock _didn't_ lie to me but he doesn't think he's capable of giving me what I would want out of… you know, out of a boyfriend, partner, whatever. And that he thinks it'd be best if we stay more or less as we are, and that I be free to find my own happiness where I can."

John pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Not capable my arse. He's so full of shit."

"It's a wonder his eyes aren't brown," Molly agreed, "But I think it was all tied up in his head with everything going on with Mary and Eurus and it's not like you can argue somebody into a relationship with you. So that's where we've left it."

She shrugged.

"It's honestly okay. I've not given up or anything… I still date, and if another true love walks in my door I'll be taking it, but I'm not settling for anything less. Tried that once, didn't work."

John shook his head. Sherlock was such a waterhead sometimes. Then he lifted a hand to his collar, and with a warning, "Don't be alarmed, this isn't a come-on," undid his top two buttons.

"I always wondered why Sherlock does that but it's because he can't breathe otherwise," John said, running a finger around the loosened collar, "His shirts are cut like a corset."

"One time he yawned and stretched in the lab and one of his buttons just… gave up. Shot off two meters and broke an Erlenmeyer flask. Best day of my life," Molly said dreamily.

Then she took a sip of her wine and toyed with the tassel on her menu, before fixing John with her deep dark gaze and asking the awful but increasingly commonplace, "So how about _you_? Any new prospects in that line? It's been…"

"It's been four years, yeah. And no, there's not. I-"

John hesitated.

"I was really thinking about it, a while ago. Because Rosie's finally eased off on the separation anxiety and she's in school all day so I've got some time on my hands and… I mean I'd like to, you know? So I thought I'd clean the rest of Mary's stuff out of the flat and get on tinder or something and give it a go."

He looked down at the plain gold band on his left ring finger.

"I was going through the closet sorting it into trash, keep, Oxfam… and I came across this _stupid_ purple dress. And I'd completely forgotten about it, I don't think she even liked it much, I never saw her wearing it again… but BAM. I saw it and I was _right back_ on the night we got engaged. Full on sensory flashback, it was actually kind of impressive"

John twiddled his wedding ring, saying, "So then I cried for an hour, had panic attacks every day for a week, and decided to go back to therapy instead. Apparently I've been delaying some of my grieving process until the moment was more opportune."

"You don't watch out, John, you're going to end up being well adjusted."

John snorted and had a drink of his water.

"Can't help but notice that when I was badly adjusted I got laid one hell of a lot more."

Molly sparkled at him, and murmured seductively, "Well, I'll tell you what, let's make a deal. Since us being a couple does _technically_ work on paper… perhaps you and I could come to some arrangement. If nothing else really works out for us…"

John raised an eyebrow quizzically at her. Was she suggesting-?

No, she wasn't. He sighed.

"You're going to say suicide pact, aren't you?"

"Suicide. Pact," Molly said triumphantly, "I know just how to do it too. Really theatrical and gory and mysterious. Keep Sherlock Bloody Holmes guessing for _years._ "

"Madwoman," John laughed fondly, "What are you thinking for the first course?"

And so it went. Three hours later, stuffed like a foie gras goose (though sadly, lacking any sapphires) and slightly squiffy (he'd broken down and split the £1400 bottle of wine, it wasn't like he was _really_ on the wagon) John decided to walk Molly back to her flat. It was a lovely night, Islington was only one tube stop further along than he'd be taking anyway, and it was nice to feel like a gentleman.

Her posh conversion was at the end of a dim, tree-lined street, and when they got to her door Molly said, digging through her purse for her keys, "I had a really good time tonight, John."

"Yeah, me too," he said, smiling, "We should do it again."

"You're on," Molly smiled in return. John leaned in to give her a goodnight kiss on the cheek-

That's when a flapping black shadow detached itself from the dim and punched him square in the mouth.

* * *

 _Imaginary love triangles_

John staggered towards his dark assailant, shouting, "Molly, _run_!"

But she didn't run, because it was Sherlock.

He grabbed Molly firmly by her upper arms and exclaimed, "Molly! Molly! Don't be in love with John!"

"Uh… okay, I won't," Molly said, confused.

"Oh, what the bloody buggering _fuck_ , Sherlock," John said, straightening up, lifting a hand to his mouth and drawing it back to see blood.

"Be in love with me instead."

"What?"

"You fucking sucker punched me- wait, what?"

They stood in silence at the points of a triangle for a moment. And the penny dropped.

"Sherlock," Molly asked gently, looking up into his wild eyes, "Have you been trying to get John and me together?"

"I _thought_ that was a weird prize for a classic rock station to give out. The guy who won the morning before got ZZ Top tickets. Was _I_ supposed to get ZZ Top tickets? I would have _enjoyed_ some ZZ Top tickets," John grumbled.

"And you were talking John up to me in the lab-" she murmured.

"Oh, oh, _very_ nice, you didn't talk _Molly_ up to _me_ ," John bristled, stepping up to Sherlock, " _I_ got a forty-minute sermon on the sanctity of the monogamous relationship while your tailor felt me up."

"I didn't need to talk Molly up," Sherlock said softly. He hadn't let go of Molly's arms, and he was staring straight into her eyes, "She's perfect and complete, exactly as she is. Anyone can see it."

"Did you arrange a _triple homicide_ in Mayfair so Greg wouldn't be able to come?"

"What?" Sherlock said, blinking and finally tearing his eyes away from Molly, "No, of course not. The citizens of Mayfair arranged that. _I_ had his car stolen."

"Oh, _Sherlock,_ " Molly said, tucking her keys back into her handbag and reaching her hand up to stroke his chin, "Why would you, of all people, do something like that?"

"Because, it's logical. You're alone, John is alone… and Rosie said-"

"Wait, hold on," John growled, "You got my _daughter_ involved in this, Sherlock?"

"It was her idea."

"I don't care if it was her idea, she's _five_ , you _dick_. Remember all those little chats we've had about redirecting her rather than acting as her henchman?"

Molly frowned, because Rosie hadn't seemed at all keen on the idea of Molly dating _anybody,_ least of all her father. It was _possible_ she wanted that… but you also had to consider she was a miniature Svengali with the cynical perceptiveness of a forty-year old master criminal. And John and Sherlock, clever men that they both undoubtedly were, were totally her bitches.

God, she did love that little girl. Even when Rosie dropped her into situations like this one.

"Sherlock, you don't need to _handle_ my love life. I know…"

Well for one Molly knew that she wished John weren't, _again_ , here to witness one of these discussions.

"I know how we both feel. We said it, and it w-was true, and that's settled. That won't change, even if I do find somebody else, who won't be John. So you don't need to worry, and everything is just… fine."

She was damn well _not_ going to cry over this. She'd done far too much of that over the years. Everything _was_ fine. Admittedly it would be easier _not_ to do that if the love of her life wasn't towering over her, the sharp scent of his cologne filling her senses, the heat of his hands burning though the fabric of her sleeves.

"Molly," Sherlock said, chewing over each word and speaking slowly, "I told you, before, that I'm not capable of being a good partner-"

"Literally nobody thinks that about you except _you_ , Sherlock," Molly interrupted him, not without a hint of bitterness.

"As the other version of 'partner,' _I_ might," John said, rubbing his rapidly-bruising jaw.

"Not helpful, John," Molly snapped.

"But I've reevaluated that of late, and I think I may well have been incorrect. But… if it's too late-"

All right, Molly _wasn't_ going to cry. Hysterical joy? Maybe.

"No, of course it's not," she stammered, "Oh, God, it's not too late."

He flexed his fingers on her arms, and smiled disbelievingly, continuing, "And I know it's selfish of me and not considering the needs of Rosie-"

"Fuck's sake," John rolled his eyes, "Get over yourself. You're twenty-five percent of my childcare arrangments, Sherlock. I didn't do that because you're good at solving crimes. I did it because you're… good. Mostly, though it's _really_ a dick move to punch somebody without letting him get his hands up first. But you're allowed to want to be happy, so shut up."

Sherlock raised his hand and ever-so-carefully brushed his knuckles over Molly's cheek.

"I'm sorry I hit you, John. I panicked."

"Yeah, well," John rubbed his jaw, and smiled sadly, "You probably owed me one. Now go kiss the pretty girl. Unless of course Molly would _prefer_ to drop your scrawny arse and have me take her upstairs, give her a good rogering, in which case I'm happy to oblige. No?"

He shrugged theatrically and walked away, whistling softly in the dark. Molly and Sherlock were alone on the quiet street.

She stepped closer to him, his arms coming around her, _her_ arms slipping 'round his waist.

"Do you _want_ to kiss me, Sherlock?" Molly asked quietly.

She couldn't stop smiling.

"I've waited far too long… and yes. Very much. More than almost anything."

* * *

 _Epilogue: Grace adieu_

After paying Violet, John swished salt water in his mouth, spat pink into the kitchen sink. Not that he wasn't really happy for his friends and everything, but if he lost a tooth Sherlock was damn well paying for the dentist. Blood had ruined the collar of the overpriced and over-snug shirt, too.

"Daddy?" a sleepy little voice called down the stairs, "I'm thirsty."

She was no such thing, John knew. Rosie was always a night owl and wanted some company. It didn't sound like a bad idea, though, so he called up, "Just a minute, pumpkin."

In his bedroom he pulled off his bloodied shirt and put on a clean one before bringing Rosie her drink of water. She was sitting up in her bed, her blonde-and-purple ringlets curling madly around her face, and took one token sip in an attempt to make him think her summons was legitimate.

"Did you and Aunt Molly have fun?" she asked hesitantly.

"We did," he said, "And we saw your uncle Sherlock, too."

"I'm not to call him Uncle Sherlock," Rosie recited, "Because it's a ridiculous affectation to imply that we're biologically connected, both overstating the importance of the genetic relationship and minimizing the far more important bonds between people who have chosen one another.

"I know," John said, chuckling at her expert mimicry, down to the Old-Harrovian accent, "But he only says that cause he's a tit. You call him Uncle Sherlock, if you like."

"'Kay," Rosie said.

John paused. He didn't want to hurt Rosie's hopes, but it was best not to drag these things out.

"Pumpkin, Sherlock told me that him and you have been trying… well, that you've been wanting me and your aunt Molly to be… a couple."

Rosie averted her gaze guiltily and John kept on, "And I'm not mad, it's okay… but even though Molly and I both love you very much, and we love each other-"

"It's not in the way where you want to put your penis inside her," Rosie said decidedly, "That's good. I was worried when you held hands with her."

 _Bloody Sherlock and his bloody detailed answer to the question of where babies come from. She'd been the hit of her infant's school for a week after that incident._

"That's... that's not the only thing grownups do when they're in love, Rosie. But no, I don't love her in the way that people love each other when they get _married_."

Hopefully in their mid to late thirties, and/or when their fathers have already died. Also to some unimpeachable person who can pass the inspection of the entire might of the British government _and_ the Baker Street Irregulars.

"I know. But Sherlock does."

She said this quite calmly and with absolute certainty.

"Yeah," John said, squinting down at her, "Yeah, I think he does."

"Of _course_ he does, Daddy," Rosie said, wrinkling her nose, "But sometimes he doesn't realize that he _can_ do things until he's done them, and _that's_ when we have to help him, or he _won't_ do them and everything will just be silly."

John chuckled, despite himself.

"You… Rosamund Watson… you are just like your mum. In all the best ways."

"Can we have ice cream, then?" she asked, as if the one followed on the other. John frowned at her, mock-sternly.

"And what did you eat for dinner, then?"

"Well," Rosie considered, "Sherlock said to tell you it was candyfloss. But it was not. Violet made dinosaur nuggets and beans."

John mused, arms folded across his chest, before saying, "Clearly that calls for a midnight feast."

He carried her down the stairs to the kitchen. Rosie was getting big enough that it was a bit of a haul, but it wouldn't be long before she stopped wanting him to… or before his back stopped _letting_ him, so he did it anyway.

They sat at the battered old table in the kitchen and tucked into their Chunky Monkey. John watched her, this little person he'd helped make, carefully separating the chocolate bits out to eat last. She'd got that from him, he realized. Just like she got her unstoppable curiosity from Sherlock every Wednesday and her cast-iron stomach from Molly on Thursdays and Saturdays and her passion for terrible American TV from Violet on Fridays.

Rosie had an unusual amount of people to love her, now that he thought of it.

But was she still missing someone?

"Rosie," he asked, suddenly, "Do you feel bad that… that I'm _not_ in a couple? Not with your Aunt Molly, but… that you don't have…"

"A mummy?" she asked. And there was just a little bit of Mary's archness creeping in around the edges.

"No, your mum will always be your mum," John told her, firmly, "But at some point, maybe… a stepmum?"

Rosie thought it over for a minute. Then carefully she said, "I _do_ feew bad that I don't have a puppy. I don't feew bad that I don't have a stepmum."

John chuckled. It was so _cute_ when Rosie glided over her "l's" that he really hadn't bothered that it was technically a speech impediment.

"A puppy, hm?"

"A beagwe puppy."

An hour later, having committed to adopting a mixed-breed puppy that certainly _looked_ beagle-ish (Rosie had been able to find a relevant website quite quickly, she was very clever that way) John prepared for bed. He hesitated for a moment in the closet, before taking down a simple purple dress from its hanger.

There wasn't any scent of _Claire de la Lune_ , when he buried his face in the silky fabric. Nothing sentimental like that… just the faint dusty smell of something left in a closet, untouched and unneeded, for four years.

"You never know what might walk in the door," John murmured to himself.

Carefully, he folded the dress up and put it into the "Oxfam" box that he'd shoved under the bed. It was pretty.

Maybe it could do somebody some good.


End file.
